Where Serpents Lie

Twenty-Five

By late evening I was back in my apartment, with the windows open and the TV turned to CNB. What a program lineup that night: Sheriff Department press conference on The Horridus, followed by an exclusive interview with accused child molester Terry Naughton. Must-see TV.

I checked my e-mail again: no word from I. R. Shroud. I was almost certain he’d blown me off. Cautious. Scared. The acid test was tonight, though: what would he do if he saw me — as I had to assume he would — plastered all over CNB, or one of their sister stations around the country, or in any of thousands of newspapers the next day? Would he think Mal was a profoundly disturbed cop who had ordered up customs of himself for his personal needs? Would he assume the pictures he sold were used against me, or would he assume there was more evidence than just those? Might he speculate that Naughton had been framed by Mal? Worst of all, would he wonder if Mal’s fall was all part of some elaborate covert plan to locate him, The Horridus?

How should I play it? That was the only question I really had an answer to.

I listened to a long message from Donna, who sounded exhausted. She said she’d gotten some dramatic film for the Texas connection story; Welborn was a great guy; the sight of Mary Lou Kidder’s skull had made her cry on camera and she’d never once done that in her life. She said Gene was a monster, and her guts told her that he was our guy. She said she hoped the interview this evening would help somehow. She said she loved me and she’d be home late, but she’d be home. She left her number at the Holiday Inn, but told me she’d only go back there to shower, pack and head out.

I called Johnny, Louis and Frances and explained to each that there was a house on Wytton Street in Tustin that needed checking out. Johnny said a house listed by a woman — then unlisted — was not a priority in any way he could see. I told him to lean on the listing agent for Loach’s phone number, but I could tell he wasn’t going to put it on the fast track. I could tell he was barely hearing this new request, because he was still burdened by my last one. I’d overstepped the bounds of friendship with him, and I knew it. Louis treated me like a senile relative. Frances hung up.

I got an idea and called Sam Welborn in Wichita Falls. He had gone home already, but I talked to a desk sergeant. I told him I was working a case with Welborn and needed the married names, addresses and phone numbers of Wanda Grantley’s sisters and daughters. He said he couldn’t help me just this second. He said every reporter in the state of Texas needed something about the guy out in Hopkin that fed Mary Lou Kidder to his python. I asked him how he knew it was a python and he said a big snake’s a big snake. “Everybody’s got their knickers in a twist,” he said slowly. He took down the information, said he’d give it to Welborn, and that was that.

Half an hour later the press conference started, featuring Jim Wade and Jordan Ishmael, with supporting roles for Frances and Louis. Wade went on first, covering the basics of the search for The Horridus, the department’s frustrations, the almost celestial good fortune for everyone that this “cunning monster” had chosen to “torment” his young victims rather than commit even “greater evil” upon them. He was matter-of-fact, as Jim Wade always was. He was credible because he was calm. He’d done conferences like this a hundred times, and he knew his lines. He was also old and tired. Tired enough to have been fooled by one of his own underlings. I could tell from the expression and posture of Ishmael, sitting to Wade’s right, that he believed he had been chosen. Ish now considered himself the elect. I was certain, too, that he’d be the insiders’ candidate to become the next sheriff-coroner of Orange County.

Yes, there he was, Ishmael, large and feline and relaxed and anointed. When he took the podium to say his piece, I couldn’t help but admit what a presence he had on camera, the way his handsome, green-eyed face so easily commanded: trust me, obey me, join me. He had the allure of a star, the ego of a celebrity and the charisma of a politician. I felt small and venal compared to him. One thing about the Irish, though: we never quit. I pictured Jordan Ishmael going through the photo albums in Ardith’s study. I pictured him surfing through the porn network, searching out a supplier, a purveyor, and finally, a creator. Landing on I. R. Shroud. Question: did Ish know who he was dealing with? I didn’t want to believe it. In spite of my disgust for him, I didn’t want to believe a cop would knowingly use The Horridus to frame up another cop. I would have to ruin him, however. I wouldn’t rest until I ruined him. I knew it, and Ishmael must have known it, too. I needed a record of his log-ons and IRC receptors — his real-time chat destinations. I needed Johnny to come through.

I wondered if there was another way to get what I needed: might Melinda be willing to help me?

What a joke, I thought.

What a sad, bad joke. So funny I’d laughed out loud about it in the café with Johnny. Maybe it was my growing sense of urgency that made it seem at least possible.

“Lieutenant Jordan Ishmael,” he intoned on-screen, “Sheriff-Coroner Department, Orange County. We’ve had a break in our investigation of a suspect calling himself The Horridus. As you just heard from Sheriff Wade, he is wanted for the abduction of three juvenile females in the last two months. We believe that he is partaking in what we call an escalating fantasy and that he will graduate to more serious acts that could logically end in homicide. We are prepared to do anything within our power to see that this does not occur. We understand the fears and anxieties in our communities. We are part of those communities and we share these concerns. This man is preying on young children. Our children are our most precious members, and our future. This is why, beginning two years ago, the Orange County Sheriff Department created a new Crimes Against Youth unit, dedicated to protecting our minors. Some of our best people joined that unit. Since the first Horridus abduction, CAY has been dedicated to apprehending this individual. CAY has been joined by other personnel from other sections of the force. As head of the unit, I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to find this monster and bring him to justice.”

Ishmael turned away from the camera and took a sip of water.

Some of our best people. Head of the unit.

He’d even taken my job.

I felt that kind of blind anger you can’t do anything about. At least nothing immediately. I had to sit there, along with two and a half million other countyans, and take it on the chin from Ishmael, head of CAY, by his own admission one of the department’s best and brightest crimebusters.

“Now, modern law enforcement has two methods of apprehending suspects. The traditional method is to gather evidence, locate the subject and proceed to interview and perhaps arrest. The other method, which has been gaining favor lately in more sophisticated departments, is one of proaction. In proaction, you take steps that will increase your chances of finding a suspect before he commits another crime. Proaction can be seen as a drawing out of the suspect. Neighborhood policing, neighborhood watch, fugitive publicity and even the holding of press conferences such as this, can all be parts of an effective, proactive campaign. To this end, we now present a composite drawing of the unidentified white male subject who calls himself The Horridus. Louis?”

Condescending prick, I thought.

The screen filled with a poster enlargement of Amanda Aguilar’s drawing. It looked much more human than the photocopy I had smuggled out of my work station, because I was seeing it in color for the first time. The Horridus looked back at me, with his slender face and tall forehead, his short white hair up like the bristles of a brush, his unrevealing eyes, his thin, unhappy mouth. He didn’t look evil. He didn’t even look suspicious. He looked “above average,” whatever that is — intelligent, kempt, unthreatening. Which is one of the reasons he had been able to do what he had done.

I could hear Ishmael’s voice-over: “... white male, late twenties to early thirties, average height and weight, slender build. Brown eyes. Clean shaven. The suspect was last seen wearing a dark blue sport coat and tan trousers. The suspect drives a late-model white van. The suspect has a pronounced case of halitosis. We should also add that the subject has been known to wear facial hair at times, and to change the appearance and style of his hair. If you see someone who answers this description we want you to call the dedicated Sheriff-CAY-Horridus number, one-eight hundred, six-four-seven-S-A-V-E. We ask you not to use nine-one-one. Now, in conjunction with the release of this drawing, we...”

Ishmael went on to describe the new billboards that were being set up along Interstate 5, the 405, the 91, the 57 and on eight heavy-use surface streets in the county. He said the Sheriff Department number would be visible on each, just beneath the drawing.

Ishmael, I thought. Ishmael, who knew I left the office on January 11, the day the cave pictures were shot. But did you leave, too?

With a tight, desperate flutter in my chest I picked up the phone and dialed Melinda at her office. I was surprised, almost chagrined, that she picked up.

“How are you, Mel?”

“Oh, Terry. A little pissed off, I guess.”

“At me.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

“How’s Penny?”

“Ditto the above.”

There was a silence.

“How come you’re not at the conference?”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“He took my job.”

“That’s got to be the least of your troubles.”

“It ranks a lot higher than you might know.”

“What do you want, Terry?”

“I want the IRC log-on records for Ishmael’s computer, and his phone-out sheet. I need to know who he’s networked with, and who he’s talked to. And I want to know if he left the building on January eleventh, and for how long.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Ridiculous.”

“I need that stuff worse than I can tell you.”

She hesitated again. “Why?”

“I think he set me up.”

“Oh, Terry.”

“Melinda, have you networked with I. R. Shroud?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Is that name in your network file? It would have come in through CAY. He’s a pedophile.”

“That’s your world.”

I caught the condemning irony in her voice.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said quickly.

“All right. But you’re copied every time we open a link. And you review the log-on printouts every month. You know that.”

“Okay, I’ll look. But I’ll tell you what the answer is.”

More silence, then she was back.

“No. I told you.”

“Melinda, do you have a pencil and paper handy? Good. Now write out the initials and name, I. R. Shroud.”

She sighed, but I could hear her shuffling, and the distant crack of a sheet of paper.

“So what?”

“See what else those letters spell.”

More time went by. I could hear her breathing.

“I’m no good at games like this.”

“It spells Horridus.”

One of those loaded hushes.

“Oh. Jesus Christ — it does.”

“I need to know who’s been networking with him.”

“But... how do you know anyone has?”

“It’s a hunch. The Horridus gave Shroud’s name to Stefanic on the citation, before he killed him.”

“I never heard about a citation.”

“You won’t I found it in the ladies’ room out at Caspers. I’ve been... well, staying busy.”

A brief second while Mel processed.

“But what’s it prove?”

“Nothing, goddamnit, until you check Ish’s log-ons.”

“Terry.”

“Look, Melinda, you think I did that stuff with the girls? Come on now, you know me better than just about anyone. You’ve seen me through the booze and the hate and the coming back out. You helped me get both feet on the ground, and you’ve seen my worst, woman — I know it, and so do you. So is that what you’re saying? That you spent a year of your life living with a child molester? That you left your only daughter alone with me a million—”

“—I don’t believe that. I never said I did. And that isn’t what this is about.”

“This is about the rest of my life. So put your money where your mouth is, Mel. Get Ishmael’s logons and IRC parties. See if I. R. Shroud is on them. He’s in the conference, so do it now. The master logs are in that binder right on his desk. He sees everybody else’s, so why can’t you look at his?”

“You’re out of your mind, Terry.”

“Go see, Mel. It will take you five minutes. All the heavies are at the courthouse. You’re the computer crime expert — so go see who Jordan’s computer has been talking to. It’s your job, Melinda.”

“I’ll call you back.”

I gave her the number.

“Where are you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Do the right thing, Melinda. If I’m wrong, you haven’t hurt a soul.”

“Except mine.”

Ten minutes later she called.

“Shroud is one of his log-ons. I. R. Shroud.”

“When?”

“There are, well... thirty-two of them over the last sixty days. I went back two months.”

I smiled a bitter inward smile.

“But you know, Terry, it still doesn’t prove anything.”

“It proves he talked to The Horridus, for God’s sake.”

“No, Terry. That’s one of the rules we live by in Computer Crime. All it means is that somebody used that machine.”

“Okay, it was Jim Wade, then. It was one of the late-night janitors. It was Elvis.”

“Be careful what you infer, Terry.”

“It was Jordan, Mel. What more is there to say? He used the pedophile network to get a job done. The job was to make those pictures of me. I’m due in court to defend myself on sixteen counts of sex with children, and he’s out running my unit, acting like he can catch The Horridus.”

Silence. I loved every revealing, damning second of it. I knew that Melinda could only embrace the good and detest the wicked. It’s her character. She’s always on the side of right. She knows no grays. That is the binary nature of her mind, and it is one of the things that drew me to her in the beginning. It was what made her a good woman and an excellent cop. It also made her a difficult, judgmental person to live with, for anyone less than perfect. And that’s why I called on her.

“I checked the sign-out sheet for January eleventh. He was meeting with Ingardia in the afternoon.”

I thought about that, wondering if Dom Ingardia’s secretary would say the same thing.

“I’ve got to go,” she said. It was almost a whisper.

“Thank you.”

“We need to talk, Terry. Soon, face to face and for real.”

“Name the time and place.”

She did, and I wrote them down. Then she hung up.

You haven’t fully lived until you’ve watched yourself on the TV news, denying that you are a sexual predator of children. I sat there with my mouth open, watching this cop firmly proclaiming his innocence. He gave it his all. And I couldn’t help but note that the interviewer was not hostile; she seemed even-handed, truth seeking, unprejudiced.

She did, however, heavily edit what I had said to her that evening. My bumbling and self-mystification were gone. The bizarre last third of the interview while the camera showed only ceiling was gone. She deleted my attack from the stool. There was nothing of my confession to “recognizing” the girl in the pictures with me but not being able to remember from where or when. Likewise, my confession to “recognizing” myself but not remembering from where or when was blessedly dropped. Donna also edited out the passage about Ardith’s pictures of my son and me. All in all, Donna Mason had edited in my favor. And her intro and close were subtly, reassuringly, pro Terry. I wondered if her producers at CNB ever got to see the original, and realized that they hadn’t.

It was late that night when I. R. Shroud finally responded to my postings. His message came in sometime between 8:45 and 11:30 P.M.

A few minutes later I was on with him, chatting live in the privacy of the Ramblers’ room. He cut straight to the chase.

I took the plunge.

There was a long wait then, while Shroud considered.

As mentioned, “going live” or “going to live feed” is parlance for finding the object of desire. It’s the term for dealing directly with the pom star, the video stripper, the centerfold, the model. It means that you are not just a pedophile — which is a person whose sexual preference is for children, but a molester, or potential molester — a person who acts on that preference. It means going from the image to the real human, from fantasy to reality. It is much joked about because few deviants have the resources and courage to take this step — and it is seldom done. It represents a graduation of sorts, an escalation from the ranks of the lookers and collectors and masturbators to the company of the peepers, the johns, the buyers of flesh, the stalkers and, occasionally, the rapists and the killers.

I wanted to go live because I needed the girl in the picture. I needed her to tell the truth about what didn’t happen.

I knew that the odds of Shroud coming back online were small indeed. Yes, he was arrogant. Yes, he felt secure in the ether of his computer. Yes, he wanted my money along with my soul. But he had gotten his whiff of Terry the cop, and he was going to play it safe. I looked at the blank screen.

Then, to my genuine surprise, he was there.

This was a very real ten thousand dollars that was being asked of me. And after I gave it up, there was no guarantee The Horridus would deliver the girl, no recourse if he failed.

Shroud vaporized. I lurked for a while, listening in, while the deviants whispered about their needs. No gossip about Mal and Shroud. They had heeded his warning, or were at least not talking about us.

Now that I had The Horridus talking again, I needed a way to catch him in the act. Any act would do. Crossing a street would be just fine. Vinson Clay could do it. And maybe, with luck, so could L

I made careful note of the hour and minute my conversation with I. R. Shroud began, and when it ended. I put it in my little blue notebook, right below the other live chats we’d had.

Donna stole into the apartment just before 1 A.M. I heard her key in the lock, then the vibrations of her feet on the carpet, then the sharper report of shoes on the parquet wood of the kitchen. I walked into the darkened living room. Moving in the half light of the open refrigerator she looked half real, half there. She poured herself a glass of wine, put the bottle back, then turned to look at me.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Terry,” she said. She came over and leaned her face against my chest. “I feel like I’ve been in bed with the devil himself. I’ve never, ever felt what I felt today, when I stood in that little guest house and smelled that smell. And later, when Sam showed me her... Mary Lou’s... head.”

“A long shower might wash him off you.”

“A long shower with bleach and a wire brush. Two gallons of wine and ten years of sleep. And I’d still wake up with the smell of the devil in my pores.”

“I talked to him tonight. The Horridus. On the Web.”

“Is he going to procure for you?”

“Yeah.”

“The girl?”

“That’s the deal.”

“Can you get him?”

“I will get him.”

“How?”

“I’ll see the first link of his chain tomorrow when I make a downpayment. In some field down in the south county. One link leads to the next.”

Donna sipped her wine but she didn’t let go of me. Her back felt tight to my hand, and the hand she held around my back was filled with the wadded material of my shirt. Her hair covered her face from me, but I was sure she was looking out the window toward the bean field and the freeways.

“I don’t like the ugliness of all this. Children and monsters. Pictures and snakes. It makes me feel unclean and far from any God I ever knew.”

“It does me, too.”

“Will Melinda help you?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Because she’s the expert on the computers, isn’t she?”

I thought about her question for a while. “I’m on my own there, except for Johnny, and what I can squeeze out of Vinson Clay. Mel might help. I mean, she’ll always do the right thing, because that’s Mel. But she’s not going to do much for me. I kind of ruined her life, more or less. Humiliated her.”

Donna broke away from me and stood back.

“Does she know about us?”

“I meant, the pictures humiliated her.”

“But I meant, does she know about us?”

“No.”

“How sure are you of that?”

“I’ve told you a million times, Donna — she doesn’t know. And at this point, what would it matter?”

“Things like this always matter.”

“She never knew. She doesn’t now.”

Donna looked at me in the near dark.

“Well, Jordan Ishmael does.”

I waited, a cold wave of nerves breaking over my scalp.

“We talked. He talked, mainly.”

“Explain.”

“Said he wanted to confirm his suspicions about us. Said he was acting on a tip. And, thus confirmed, he wanted to know... if... I needed help.”

“It was a bluff and a come-on. He doesn’t know anything about us.”

“Well, when he said that, he was standing about where you are now. He knocked. He identified himself. I’ll give him that. It was my fault, Terry. I’d come over from Tonello’s. He just followed. Or maybe he did get a tip — I don’t know. I denied you even knew about this place, but it didn’t help much. Not with two mugs on the counter, and that bottle of tequila, and your Sheriffs windbreaker over the chair.”

My skin rose up and crawled. “When?”

“Three days ago. You were still in jail.”

“Arrested by Ishmael.”

She said nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“It didn’t make sense to. I thought you might... do something you’d regret.”

“So, what did you tell him?”

“That you were a good man and that someone was framing you. And if he wanted to help me, he could do it by helping you. And if he saw fit to speak of our arrangement I’d burn his ass on the news, sooner or later.”

I couldn’t speak just then. All I could do is feel the blood pounding against my eardrums, a rush that felt like a river.

“He offered to show me the pictures of you and the girl. Girls. If I had any doubt.”

“Did you take him up on it?”

“Of course I did. I’m a reporter. They’re you, Terry. I know you didn’t do what they show you doing, but they’re you. They’re good.”

“But what did he want?”

Donna sighed, then turned to face me. I could see the small light reflected by her eyes. “Terry, I honestly believe all he really wanted was to help me. His concern seemed genuine. And he wanted to rattle your cage, too. One accomplishes the other, doesn’t it?”

“Help you? Did he touch you?”

“No, he did not. And if I were you, I’d derail that train of thought before it made a real fool out of myself.”

I will admit I felt nothing that moment except the desire to pound Ishmael senseless with my bare hands or, even better, an ax handle, hammer, gun butt, Mag-Lite, irrigation pipe, tire iron, Louisville Slugger...

“I know what you’re thinking, Terry. And that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you the day it happened. But God knows, I couldn’t wait forever.”

There was a long silence while we faced each other in the dark. I could see the distant freeways past Donna’s shoulder and the little gleam coming from her eyes.

“Look, it’s late,” she said. “Take your woman to the shower now, will ya? Suds her up and smooth her over. She’s beat up by the world as we know it, and she could use your arms. Can’t let some jealous lieutenant ruin your whole day. What do you say, crime-buster?”

“All right, Donna. Okay.”

She stayed in the shower for almost an hour. When she came out she was in her robe. Her hair was damp and combed straight back and she was clean and fragrant. But I’d never seen her look so tired. So small. Still, I had to know her answer, and that meant I had to ask.

“Would you be willing to testify in court for me?”

She looked startled, then suspicious, then, quite simply, exhausted. “Testify to what?”

“Being with me at the hotel, January eleventh.”

She walked up to me and looked hard into my eyes. She leaned against me.

“Yes,” she said.

“I don’t think it will come to that.”

“But let me tell you just one thing, dear man — someday you’re going to have to give back as much as you take.”

She walked into the bedroom.

I nodded, not really understanding, but wanting to. I sat up for a while thinking about what she had said. Oh, I owed: I understood that much. I understood that I owed Donna the truth, and hadn’t fully offered it yet. Secrets are debts. And the more of them you hold inside, or the bigger they are, the more you owe. I was a heavy debtor. But there was nothing I was proud of in what I could offer of truth. And I believed then, as I had believed all along, that when I paid the debt I owed her, she would leave me. I had long ago accepted the fact that I am not an honorable man. But I wanted her. And lack of honor can’t destroy desire. Just ask The Horridus. Or me.

I lay in bed beside her, but I didn’t sleep.